


Detective, Doctor, Thief, Diamond

by Whytejigsaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Romance, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whytejigsaw/pseuds/Whytejigsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post TRF, pre-season4, Sherlock convinces Molly to help him on a case involving an international jewel thief. The catch: she must leave her job, pretend to be someone she is not & she doesn't think she can do it. A Sherlolly story. Betaed by Thinkswithpen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Premise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KendraPendragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraPendragon/gifts).



> Dedicated to my dear friend KendraPendragon on her birthday.

Though she had helped him, sheltered him, patched up wounds and been a good listener, Molly Hooper had not been surprised when Sherlock Holmes resumed his traditional behaviour after his resurrection.  In her secret dreams, she might have hoped for a warmer, friendlier relationship but it wasn’t realistic.  He really was a machine.

Sherlock and John were reunited, in work and friendship if not in domestic arrangements.  John’s girlfriend, soon to be wife, Mary Morstan had flat-out laughed at Sherlock’s suggestion that they both move back into Baker St with him.  John was quick to side with Mary, even if Sherlock knew a tiny part of him would have agreed if Mary had. 

It was as if two years hadn’t passed.  Sherlock would breeze into the morgue, demanding unreasonable things.  Molly would acquiesce with genuine keenness.  John would grimace in the background.  One day after they’d left Molly, her eyes brimming with tears because Sherlock had commented that she looked like a 14 year old that day.  It was true: what adult wore jumpers with kittens prancing around?

“Sherlock, that was really harsh.  There’s no need for that level of personal comment.  I thought you’d learnt your lesson all those Christmases ago,” he chided.

His former flatmate let out a long sigh, allowing his body to visibly deflate.

“I know.  I can’t help it.”

“Yes, you can.  Just shut your trap.  Think it but don’t say it.  She doesn’t deserve it…even if she hadn’t helped you with Moriarty, she wouldn’t deserve it.”

“Should I apologise again?”

“Of course.  And you know it without asking it.  You’re not that socially retarded!”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. 

^*^*^*^

Molly sat at her desk.  She was allowing herself 5 minutes to wallow.  She thought about what Sherlock had said.  In truth, she had bought the jumper in a teen department.  Her small stature meant that those clothes fitted her, and though she didn’t need to make the saving, kids clothes were cheaper.  If I was in a film, she thought, I’d go out, buy a whole new wardrobe and look like dynamite the next time Sherlock appeared at work.  He’d taken one look, scoop her into his arms, and declare what an idiot he’d been all this time.  She sighed.  Why did no one ever tell young girls that these kind of romantic comedies almost never happened in real life?  It was much more chance and then, if you got on reasonably well, you’d go out for a while.  Nothing was ever spectacular.  It was like Jim had once said, apparently, stayin’ alive….it’s just staying…  With no particular resolutions made, and certainly no plans for shopping, Molly noticed her 5 minutes were up, and went back to work.

^*^*^*^

John and Sherlock had been working a case to do with an international jewel thief.  It wasn’t the usual sort of thing Sherlock concerned himself with but he’d wanted a case that didn’t involve St. Barts for a while.  Jewellery seemed just the ticket.

“You know, John, this case is proving trickier than I initially suspected.”

“Well, let’s go over it.”

“I really don’t need you to summarise,” said Sherlock curtly.

“Indulge me.  The Monk, aka Heinrich Ames, has been operating a precious gem smuggling business for at least 7 years.  He’s never been caught.  There’s only one known photograph of him and no record of his life in Germany before 2002, so he’s probably using an alias.  He now steals to order.”

“What we need, John, is to set up a sting.  Draw him out.”

“How do you propose we do it?”

“I don’t know yet.”  Sherlock lay on the couch and resumed his traditional prayer pose.

John regarded him for a moment and then decided to go buy some takeaway for them.

Over an hour later, Sherlock opened his eyes.

“John!” he called excitedly.  Receiving no answer, he went into the kitchen to find John reading a newspaper, the remnants of a curry beside him.

“I have it,” he announced.

John set down his paper, indicating he was ready to listen.

“We’ll set up a customer for the Monk.  It’ll be something of a long con.  She’ll pose as a rich bored trophy wife and eventually, she’ll procure a meeting with the Monk, where she will ask him to steal the Hope Diamond.”

“What’s the hope diamond?”

“Oh, only the most famous jewel ever.  It was owned by Marie Antoinette amongst many others.  Some say it is cursed but even wikipedia’s article will show you how most of its owners died normally.”

“Who owns it now?”

“The Smithsonian.  We’ll need their help of course.”

“You mean, you actually want him to steal it?”

“No!  I want him to attempt it at a time of our choosing.”

“So we’re going to involve Mycroft then?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

“No doubt he’ll have a suitable female agent for the role.”

“Oh I’m sure, but I already have someone in mind!”

“Not Irene Adler?”

“No, and aren’t you supposed to be pretending she’s in witness protection so as to spare my feelings from thinking she’s dead?”

John coughed awkwardly.

“You knew about that then?”

“Yes, I happened to have been passing Karachi and helped her out of that little problem.”

“Happened to be passing Karachi?” John spluttered.

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.  “Never mind all that.  Though she is in America.  She’s far too notorious.”

“Then who?”

“Molly Hooper.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“She’s perfect.”

John filed away that comment for later analysis before speaking.

“She’s a doctor, raised by her father in an ordinary English middle-class suburban setting.  She has no acting training.  There’s no way she could pull off the about face required.”

“She’ll be great,” Sherlock reiterated.

“She hasn’t even agreed yet.”

Sherlock merely smiled.

“I hope that grinning maniacally at her isn’t your plan to get her to agree.  You already treat her badly enough.”

“Oh she won’t be in any danger.   We’ll be watching her.”

John simply folded his arms, knowing there was no point arguing with him in this mood.  Mycroft would change his mind.

 


	2. The Victim

Much to John’s chagrin, Mycroft was going along with the idea.  He’d even offered to loan Anthea to help.  The next trick was to get Molly to agree.

Sherlock dressed with care before going down to St Barts, John in tow.  The whole way there he endured pleading from John.

“Sherlock, this is a terrible idea.  She’ll say no.”

“She won’t say no.”

“Well, I hate to say this, she probably won’t say no but she could easily screw the whole thing up.  You need someone trained.”

“Nonsense.  Someone untrained is exactly what we need to pull this off.”

They timed their arrival to coincide with Molly’s lunch break.  She was just walking out the door as they approached.

“Ah Molly, excellent timing.  John and I are taking you for lunch.”

“You are?  Why?”   Her eyes narrowed.

“We have something to discuss.  Come along.”

Molly followed as Sherlock led her to one of the family rooms.

The 3 sat at the table.

“Sherlock, why have you taken me to one of the bad news rooms?”

“The what?”

“This is where doctors take relatives to tell them bad news.  Furthermore, I don’t see any lunch.”

“Right.  John?”

“I’m going.”

Sherlock waited for the door to close and then reached across the table to take Molly’s hand.

“Molly…” he began.

“What are you doing?  This is bad news.  Do you have some incurable disease?”

“What?  No.  I have a plan and need your help.”

“I’m not faking your death again.”

“Nothing like that.  It’s quite simple.  I need you take a leave of absence, take on a new persona and lure an international jewel thief.”

She stared at him, dumb struck.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you…I think you’re mixing me up with someone else, and am now wondering if you have a brain tumour.”

She extricated her hand.

“And if you think holding my hand will make me agree, then you are more stupid than I thought.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Yes…no, don’t twist my words.  There’s no way I could do something like that Sherlock.”

“Of course you could.  It would be child’s play in comparison to all the lies you told to help me before.  All this needs is a new wardrobe, a fancy apartment, some appearances in the right places.  2 months tops.”

“What kind of danger is involved?”

Sherlock smiled, knowing he was winning her over.

“None at all.  We’ll be in regular contact, covertly of course.”

John returned with distinctly unappetising sandwiches for all.

“Well, has he told you the plan?”

“He has.”

“Please tell me you have not agreed to this madness.”

“She has not but I estimate she is 4-7 minutes away from agreement,” Sherlock cut in.

Molly opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again.  She reached for one of the sandwiches and very slowly opened the packaging.

John did the same, while Sherlock watched Molly intently.  He was far too confident of success to bother with further communication.

Finally, after 9 minutes, though he was sure she waited just so he could be wrong, she spoke.

“Who would look after my cat?”

“Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock, you haven’t even asked her!” said John.

“What old lady wouldn’t want a cat?”

“My job here would be secure?”

“Naturally.  And all your expenses will be paid.”

John decided to try for sanity one last time.

“Molly, I implore you, don’t give in to him on this.  It’s a terrible plan.”

“You think I couldn’t do it?” she snapped.

“You said so yourself only a few minutes ago.”

“Sherlock, where do we start?”

Sherlock looked smugly at John, who couldn’t see him because he’d buried his head on the table under his arms.

“You two are crazy and deserve each other,” he said indistinctly.

“We start with a visit to Mike Stamford.”

^*^*^*^

Having Mycroft Holmes on your team certainly made things smoother.  By the end of the day, Molly was released from work for an indefinite period, officially “seconded” to a hospital up north.  She arrived home to find Sherlock and a surly woman, surgically attached to her phone, waiting for her.

“What you didn’t feel you should break in with other people?” she quipped.

Once they were inside, Sherlock spoke up.

“Molly, allow me to introduce Anthea.  She is Mycroft’s PA and will assist you with our project.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure,” grinned Anthea.

Sherlock surprised everyone by announcing he’d put the kettle on.

“I can see we have a lot of work to do,” said Anthea.

“What do you mean?” asked Molly,  mildly offended.

“Well, just off the top of my head, we’ll need to colour and style your hair, get you a new wardrobe, for adult women, work on your accent and get you used to acting spoiled rotten.”

Molly gulped.  It did sound like a lot of work.

Sherlock returned.

“Anthea, no surgery or cosmetic alterations allowed.  Do it all with makeup and hair colour.”

“Why does everyone want to change my hair?”

Sherlock began to speak but Anthea cut him off.

“Molly, dear, no self-respecting trophy wife would have hair that long.  It has to be blonde and styled within an inch of its life.  Don’t worry.  You’ll have regular stylist appointments.  That’s how we’ll keep in touch.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but MI5 has the best hairdressers, and they just happen to have a salon on the south bank.”

While Molly processed that, Sherlock took over.

“Now, you can’t bring anything at all with you from current life.  So when you leave her tomorrow morning, just take your handbag as if you were going to work.  Anthea will take care of it.”

“What about Toby?”

“I’ll take him home tomorrow after you’ve left.”

She sat down on the couch, daunted by the task ahead of her.  Sherlock kneeled in front of her and took her hands.

“I know you can do this,” he said seriously.

“Thanks.  I don’t know why you want me though.  Surely Mycroft has someone better.”

“The Monk is too good for that…he’ll sniff them out.”

“If he can figure out genuine spies, he’ll spot me instantly.”

“No, that’s not the way he operates.  And it’ll be about 5 weeks before we even begin that play.  For now, you’re just going to settle into your new life.”

“What’s my name going to be?”

“Still Molly, with a new surname, Pearson.”

“And who is my husband?”

Sherlock looked a little guilty.

“Well, me, but not as myself.  It occasionally suits me to pretend to be Harry Pearson, a shady organised crime boss from the East End.  Only 2 people have seen me as Pearson, and they administer the rest of the gang.  I’ve deliberately cultivated an occluded aura, which allows the real me to come and go as I please.  I’ll introduce you to these men and let them look after you, and then I’ll be out of the picture most of the time, which is what they are used to.  Can you do an American accent?”

“Er, probably, why?”

“I’ve told my minions that I’ve been in America for a while.  It’ll work that I’ve come back with a lovely wife.”

“Ok….look, this is a lot to take in.  Would you two mind leaving me for the evening?  I want to say a proper goodbye to Toby.”

“Of course, Molly, I’ll collect you at 9am tomorrow morning.  Just your handbag, remember.”

She nodded.


	3. The Make-over

Molly awoke early, after a night of fitful dreams.  She was going to call the whole thing off.  It was total madness.  She grabbed her phone and discovered a text from Sherlock which read “you will be fine, I have complete confidence in you”.  Grinning at both his ability to say the right thing and his know-it-all antics, she headed for the shower, and was ready for Anthea when buzzed the door at 9am promptly.

They sat in a fancy car and headed towards an undisclosed location, driving for almost an hour.  Molly had just decided that the whole thing was an elaborate joke, when they pulled up outside what looked like a warehouse.  She looked askance at Anthea.

“We’re going to do most of the changes here.  I’ve assembled stylists, clothes, handbags and shoes.”

“Anthea, surely you agree that this is a terrible idea.”

Anthea put down her phone, a momentous move, which Molly did not properly appreciate.

“Molly, Sherlock and Mycroft believe you can do this, and that’s good enough for me.  Now stop moaning and focus.  There’s a lot of work to do.  Just be glad you don’t need to go on a diet too!”

They walked into the warehouse to be greeted by Eric, the gayest straight man Molly had ever met.

“Right, darling, we’ve a lot to do.  Let me introduce my team: Sharon on hair, Trudy on make-up, Bea on waxing, Karen: accessories and I’ll do clothes & general coaching.  Sharon’s going to make a start on your hair and while your colour is setting, we’ll take a look at some outfits.”

Rather overwhelmed, Molly allowed herself to be led to a chair in front of a table but no mirror.  She was gowned up and Sharon began pasting a cold, wet dye on her hair.

“Why no mirror?” she asked.

“I prefer to look at my client directly.  Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.  You won’t look like a WAG.  It’ll be an obviously professional blonde dye job. We’ll be topping up the roots every six weeks.”

Molly had hoped they’d be done before that but chose instead to ask about styling.

“Oh yes, I’m glad you asked…I know you want to keep the length but at least 6 inches will have to go.  Just below shoulder length, with a couple of layers for some definition.  Really, love, no one over 20 should have hair down to her elbows.”

This was a bit too close to a Sherlock-type comment.  Molly buttoned her lip and tried not to pout as Sharon cover her hair in some kind of shower cap.

What followed was like a movie-montage, at least in Molly’s head.  She was waxed, buffed, tinted, tanned, manicured and shown a dizzying array of slightly trashy designer clothes.  Mrs Pearson apparently liked animal prints and Prada bags.  Finally, she was returned to Sharon, who did indeed cut quite a bit of her now blonde hair off.

Anthea returned just as they were finishing up.

“Don’t I get to see it?” pleaded Molly.

“No, wait until they’ve done your make-up and dressed you up.  That way you’ll get the full effect at once.”

Eric came over.  “Great, you’re ready.  Now, there’s one other member of the team to meet.”

He gestured behind him and a small red-haired woman with glasses came towards them.

“This is Kate Harrison.  She’ll be your vocal coach.”

“I understand you can do a basic American accent.  I’ll help you use the right words, tones and place your accent in a geographical location that will work with the identity we’ve built up for you,” said Kate, her own American accent placing her firmly in the Gone with the Wind area of that country.

“Gosh…this is more elaborate than I realised.”

“Well, you’ll fool Brits easily but if you have to meet Americans, they’ll catch you out.  But don’t worry, I’m very good at my job.”

“Right, well, what’s next?”

“Let’s get you dressed and then we’ll go look at real estate.”

Half an hour later, she stared at her new image in the mirror.  Blonde shoulder length hair, check, tight black dress, check, ridiculously high Louboutins, check, white leather jacket, check, enormous leopard print bag, check.  Not forgetting more make-up than she’d ever worn cumulatively in her life.

“I look horrid.”

“Yes, but you’ll fit right in,” said Anthea. 

They got back into the car and set off.

“Where will I be living?”

“Whitechapel – close to Harry’s business area but in a modern apartment block.”

“Will it also be trashy?”

“No, Molly Pearson, the American, is absolutely enchanted with the British way of life, all things Downton Abbey, etc, so you’ll be living in the height of Edwardian chic…or at least a modern version of it.  No one had comfortable chairs in the 1920s,” explained Anthea.

“So afternoon tea and church fetes?”

“Something like that…along with your daily session with your trainer, weekly visits to your spa, shopping and so on.”

“How often will I see Sherlock?”

“Not very.  I’ll be your main point of contact along with his two minions.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the minions, before I start addressing them that way.”

Anthea handed over a folder.  She was always prepared.  Molly spent the rest of the journey reading about Rick Heathcote and Mick Donnelly, two East-end petty criminals who’d be selected by Sherlock for greater things about 6 years ago.  He’d made sure to keep all aspects of his business segmented, so these were the only two he ever met with. 

“How much am I supposed to know about Harry’s business?”

“You only know about the legit stuff but we’ll play it by ear, it may become useful for you to suspect.  Now, when we arrive at your place, you’ll have about an hour to acquaint yourself with the surroundings.”

“What happens then?”

“Show time.”

Anthea let Molly into a 2 storey penthouse apartment and handed her a set of keys, complete with a diamond encrusted M.

The main hall way had corridors to the left and right with a black and white check tiled floor.  A big bowl of flowers stood on a side table.  To the left, Molly found a large show house kitchen and dining area.  

“Don’t worry, you won’t be doing any entertaining,” said Anthea.

“What about regular eating?!”

“The kitchen will be fully stocked, and you have a housekeeper.”

The kitchen led on to a large reception room, decked out like the library in Downton Abbey, except it also had a grand piano, a 40” flat screen tv and easy chairs for reading.  When Molly stopped to examine the bookcases, she discovered a lot of the books were leather bound telephone directories.  Only one small section contained real books.  A window wall allowed spectacular views of London.  Passing through the reception room, which Molly couldn’t ever imagine being comfortable in, she found a study, obviously set up for “Harry” with a computer and other modern office equipment.  Lastly, she found herself at the other end of the corridor, with a guest bathroom tucked under a stairs.  Anthea indicated she should continue her tour upstairs, where she found a home gym, a guest bedroom dressed like a bordello in purple and red, a lounge area with couches, another television with a serious games console and a substantial dvd collection.  The last room was more a suite, containing a dressing room, master bedroom and adjoining bathroom.  4 Louis Vuitton cases sat on the floor.

“What do you think?” asked Anthea, with a twinkle in her eye.

“It’s spectacular in a really nasty trashy way.  I feel like I’m on one of those hideous reality shows.  I presume those bags are full of my new clothes?”

“Correct.  The housekeeper, Wendy, will be along shortly with Mick and Rick to meet you.  Don’t worry, Sherlock will be there too.”

“And what role do you play in all this?”

“I’m your assistant, but you’ll contact me by phone rather than my being based here with you.   Remember, you’re a bored housewife who is too rich to do housework.”

“Right.”

At that, they heard the front door opening and Sherlock’s voice called “Molly!” loudly.  They hurried down the stairs as fast as Molly’s shoes could take her.

Sherlock was standing facing the window in the main room.  “Excellent, Molly, there you are,” he said turning around.  His jaw hung open at the sight before him, amazed at the transformation.

Molly held her arms out and did a small twirl, wry grin on her face.  She was under no illusions about her appearance.

“You look shocking!  It’s absolutely perfect, of course.  Anthea, your team is to be commended.  Now, off you pop and make some tea.  Molly likes everything nice and English.”

Anthea’s smirk wafted out of the room leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

“Sherlock…” she started.

“Harry…get used to it.  We won’t be in company very often but I can’t have you slipping up.  And don’t forget the accent.”

“Alright, Harry, what’s our story?” she replied in her best American accent.

“What story?”

“Our love story…we’ve got to have one.”

“Hmm, well, Mick & Rick will be here shortly so there’s no time to think one up now.  Let’s go with…” he paused, thinking.

“Obviously, we met in Las Vegas.  You were there for business, I was on a batchelorette weekend.  We hit off.  You followed me back to Chicago, where I lived, chased me, wore me down, won me over and we were married 4 weeks ago at the court house.  It was fantastic,” said Molly, a little bit too dreamily.

“Right, well, I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks.  Oh I almost forgot.”

He put his hand in his pocket and it re-emerged with 2 rings.  Dropping them in Molly’s palm, he said “You better stick these on.”

Molly shrugged.  If she’d entertained a fantasy about a certain detective putting a ring on her finger, today was not the day for fulfilment.  She examined the rings.  The engagement was a monstrous diamond, surrounded by square cut emeralds in a solid boxy gold setting.  The wedding ring was obviously designed to go with it.  Nothing small, antique or tasteful for Molly Pearson, it seemed.  She placed them on her finger, momentarily stunned by the weight of them.  How did people wear these all the time?

The buzzer rang.

“Show time,” she said.

 


	4. Showtime

Anthea answered the door and ushered in Mick and Rick.

As they approached the door to the study, Sherlock looked at Molly.

“You ready?”

She barely had time to nod before he had grabbed her, shoved her against the desk and began nuzzling her neck.

“Oh!” she breathed. The door opened.

“Harry! Stop it. Your friends are here,” said Molly, in her best American, a little breathless from the feel of Sherlock’s lips on her neck.

He straightened up.

“Of course. Mick, Rick, this is my wife, Mrs Molly Pearson,” said Sherlock, in an East End accent.

Molly giggled.

“I’m still getting used to that “wife”!”

She extended her hand towards one of them, not sure which name went with which minion.

“Allo, Mrs Pearson, I’m Rick, he’s Mick,” said one of them.

“I’m so pleased to meet you both. Harry speaks very highly of you.”

Mick looked surprised at this comment. Molly decided not to improvise any more.

Sherlock spoke up, affecting an East End accent.

“What d’you think of the new digs? Molly ‘ere is dead keen on Downton Abbey and when she ‘eard about this place, well she just ‘ad to ‘ave it! And what she wants, she gets!”

He pulled her towards him and planted a big kiss on her mouth. Molly gave a little squeal, mainly down to surprise.

Anthea reappeared in the room with a tea tray and a discreet “ahem”.

“Tea is served in the lounge.”

Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement.

“Lads, I’m going to be busy over the next few weeks, may have to do a bit of work in France, so I want you to keep an eye on the missus ‘ere.”

“Oh Harry, do you really have to go away? We just got married and have barely had a honeymoon!”

“I know, darlin’, but we got the rest of our lives. You sit tight. I’ll be back next week for the charity fundraiser I mentioned.”

Molly pouted a little.

“Mick, Rick, anything my Molly wants, you arrange it. Get her a little car too.”

“Harry, you’re so good to me!” She squeezed his knee in appreciation.

“I’ll be in touch with you, Mrs Pearson,” said Rick. Both men stood and nodding to Sherlock, took their leave.

Once they heard the door bang, Sherlock moved away from Molly’s personal space. Anthea poured tea for them all.

“So the scene is set, you’ll play the role of bored trophy wife for the next week, shop, gym, therapy with Kate to work on your accent. Make sure you spend lots of time looking at expensive jewellery. Go to real, old-fashioned jewellers. None of that Boodles rubbish. You may be pretending to be nouveau riche but we won’t attract the Monk with anything ordinary.”

Sherlock noted with pride that yet again Molly was taking instruction well. Just as they complimented each other with lab work, here too it would go to plan.

“Thanks again for doing this Molly. Think of it as a strange paid vacation. I’ll see you next Friday for the charity ball. Anthea, make sure she has an appropriate outfit.”

He stood, draining his tiny teacup, and gathered his most-unSherlock sports jacket.

“Right, I’ll be off then,” he said, dropping a brusque kiss on Molly’s cheek.

Before she really had time to register surprise, he was out the door.

“He likes you,” remarked Anthea.

“Well, yes, we work well together and he trusts me,” agreed Molly.

“No, he _likes_ you.”

Molly shook her head. “Anthea, Sherlock doesn’t fancy anyone like that. Dogs on the other hand…there was once an Irish wolfhound in a case we were working and every chance he got, Sherlock was petting that dog, throwing things for him, telling him he was a good boy…he was like a different person!"

“You mean the way he was just now in front of the minions?” said Anthea wryly.

“No, that was acting, accent and all: with the dog, it was like seeing Sherlock as an ordinary child…as yet unencumbered with the concerns of the world and the realisation he was special.”

Molly picked up her tiny teacup and sipped.

“Anthea, I hope there’s real mugs in the kitchen?”

“Of course. Wendy, your housekeeper will be in later. She’s originally from Jamaica, great cook. She’s been vetted, knows the background but you should do your best to keep up the newly married persona for practice around her. She’ll help you with further details.”

“Ok.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll send a car for you at 11. You’ve a session with Kate to work on your accent, then we’ll hit the shops. I was thinking Harrods, then some jewellers, and Smythsons.”

“Smythsons? I hardly think I’m going to need monogrammed stationery, Anthea.”

“Well, you might, and besides, it’s the sort of thing you need to fit in. You want to appear well-respected before you even arrive on the scene. Kate has also done some research to fit your background into the right sort of Chicago respectable mob family.”

“This is really a lot of work,” said Molly. It suddenly dawned that the whole thing hinged on her and she hadn’t a clue how to achieve it.

“It’s like you said, Molly, Sherlock trusts you. Trust him and he’ll guide you through it just fine. Now, if you have no more questions, I’ll be off.”

Molly found herself alone at last. After clearing away the tea things, she returned to the large bedroom suite and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like her own evil twin. The hair she could get used to but the clothes…they were far tighter and more revealing than anything she’d ever owned and she felt terribly uncomfortable in them. Rifling through the luggage, Molly found a pair of designer tracksuit bottoms and matching top in a vibrant pink. She changed into them and once again regarded her reflected image. More comfortable but still awful. She turned to see herself from behind and discovered that emblazoned across the back in diamante dots was “Mrs Pearson”! Well, there was no getting away from it. Just have to play along,

 


	5. Putting on the Ritz

Molly awoke early – a strange bed always did that. For a few seconds, she forgot the task at hand and luxuriated into the comfortable large bed and the short silk nightdress she wore. Checking the clock, she saw there was plenty of time before Anthea collected her. A naughty thought crossed her mind. No. She couldn’t possibly. But then, there was no one here to stop her, and the brief was to play the role. What she did on her own in bed was on her own time. Molly rolled on to her stomach and put both her hands between her legs. She’d just be quick about it – not even removing her knickers. No toys in this mansion, she’d just have to go old-fashioned. Naturally, she’d think of Sherlock, as she began to circle her clitoris, enjoying the rub of fabric against her body. But this was different – because now she was pretending to be his wife. She imagined waking up beside him in this very bed. The mere thought made her spread her legs wider. Applying just a little more pressure, she thought of the huge bath just next door. Oh she’d like to have him in that. He’d walk in on her, wearing one of those sexy dressing gowns and nothing else. Oh yes, that’s good. “Molly, I know we’re only faking it, but I think we should up our game, so I’m going to get into the bath with you.” She nods, as she strokes herself. He’d remove his robe. And here, Molly let her imagination take over. He steps into the bath, so huge it easily fit two adults, and kneels between her legs. “Remember, Molly, it’s for the case.” And somehow the thought of that was enough, Molly came fast and hard, slamming her pelvis against her hands and the too soft bed, with a small incoherent moan. She rested her head against the pillow for a moment until her breathing returned to normal.

Soon after, Molly heard the front door open and hopped up out of bed. Either Anthea was early or this was the housekeeper, Wendy. She popped into the bathroom, making a face as she remembered her too blonde too short hair and headed for the shower.

20 minutes later, she found her way down to the kitchen, where a large black woman was indeed bustling around.

“Hi, you must be Wendy.”

“I am. And you should be using your American accent.”

Molly looked suitably chastised.

“Right. Of course. Is that coffee?”

Wendy nodded.

“You need more make-up too.”

“What?”

“You are pretending to be a mobster’s wife. A bit of eye-shadow won’t cut it. After breakfast, you need to go back and put on a full face of slap. There’s time before Miss Bossyboots arrives.”

“Are my clothes ok?!”

“Yes, they’ll do. I think we’re going to get on just fine, Mrs Pearson.”

An hour later, after watching some YouTube videos, Molly had applied another layer of make-up and some fake eyelashes. Not too shabby for a woman who preferred the natural look.

She passed muster when Anthea gave her a careful look over as she took out her PDA.

“So the plan is Harrods, then Garrards.”

“What do I need in Harrods?”

“Nothing. Molly Pearson shops for the love of shopping. But we’ll use the opportunity to pick out a gown for the charity event.”

And that was how Molly found herself ensconced in a Queen Anne chair, glass of Sancerre in hand, while she watched a series of impossibly thin tall young women parade past wearing delicate gowns. It was shopping, Jim, but not as she knew it. Molly Hooper was attracted to a delicate cream creation with broderie Anglaise bodice and Empire line. A stern look from her assistant said no. Molly Pearson chose a deep purple strapless number with a train. The bust was enhanced with diamante studs, which were fast becoming a theme. She listened in awe as shoes to match were ordered, measurements were taken and arrangements were made for a fitting two days hence.

Anthea consulted her schedule.

“Ok, we’ll head over to Garrards now.”

“Where is it?” said Molly, in her best American.

“There’s actually a branch on site, but we’re meeting with Mr Garrard himself, so we’ll go to their HQ on Albemarle St. I’ve ordered the car around.”

En route, Molly heard that Garrards was the preferred jeweller of the monarchy since the beginning of the 19th century.

“Mr Garrard is making an exception in meeting you without an introduction. You should be on your best behaviour. He’ll give you a tour of the available pieces, which you can rent for an evening before deciding if you’d like to purchase. Do not ask the price of anything.”

“Because it would seem crass?”

“No, because the price is irrelevant. Remember to focus on diamonds. He’s very discreet, but others on his staff may not be. This is how we’ll attract the Monk’s attention.”

“Should I mention the Hope Diamond?”

“If it comes up, enthuse, but otherwise keep schtum. This is a long con.”

Molly wondered how Anthea had become so wise.

“Years of training,” she replied to the unspoken question, as they pulled up at Garrards.

The driver came around to assist Molly out and a doorman opened the double-fronted glass doors for her. All these service personnel sure made life different.

As soon as she walked into the store, she was pounced on by a small, effeminate man of about 50. He wore a monocle and a 3 piece suit the likes of which Mycroft would have approved.

“My dear Mrs Pearson, you are so very welcome to Garrards. Please come in.”

He snapped his fingers and a junior lady stepped up to take Molly’s coat.

“Let me show you around. Your assistant tells me you’re looking for something special for a gala event. What colour is your dress?”

“It’s a deep purple.”

“Ah perhaps an emerald then?”

“I’m more of a diamond kinda gal.”

“But of course. Right this way.”

Anthea whispered to the man and he nodded.

“Please have a seat Mrs Pearson and I’ll bring some suitable pieces.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just the neckline and what way you’ll wear your hair. It’ll inform his choices.”

As they waited, they became aware of a mild commotion.

“Where is she?”

Sherlock burst into the room.

Molly quickly shrugged away her surprise.

“Harry! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to help you pick a necklace. Knew how important these things are to you. Where’s my kiss? Ain’t I a good husband?” His rough accent had returned, and Moly had to admit it was just a tiny bit sexy.

She stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips. Sherlock grabbed her waist and pulled her in close.

“I think you can do better than that, love.”

“Harry, please, we’re in public,” Molly squirmed, as Mr Garrard returned.

“Oh Mr Garrard, my husband, Harry Pearson, has joined us.”

“Thought I’d check the place out.”

“Of course. Please have a seat.”

The jeweller laid out a velvet cloth, on which he placed 3 of the most exquisite diamond necklaces Molly had ever seen. The first was a clever piece evoking the great fire of London, with flames in black and clear diamonds. The second was a Tudor Rose diamond cluster surrounded by pink pearls. The final piece was a love-knot pendant.

“They’re all stunning,” said Molly, genuinely. “What do you like?”

Sherlock considered them all.

“I like them flames. Would they go with the dress?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s have it then.”

“I think I should try it on first.”

Mr Garrard picked up the piece and undid the clasp.

“Allow me,” said Sherlock, as he lifted the delicate chain.

Molly held up her hair as he placed the necklace around her. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and it wasn’t just the necklace which made the hair stand on end.

She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, again feeling the disconnect at her altered appearance.

“I think it’s perfect.”

Anthea smiled her agreement.

“Well that’s that. Who says women take ages with shopping, eh?” Sherlock joked with the jeweller.

Molly removed the necklace.

“We’ll send a courier on Friday.”

“Excellent, Anthea will make the arrangements,” said Molly, warming to the role. “Harry, let’s go outside, before I persuade you I need a tiara as well.”

Sherlock guided her arm as returned to the outer showroom, collected her coat and left. He had also brought a car, which they now both got into.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“I wanted to check in.”

“You could have warned me. Surprising me will only increase the chance of my saying your real name.”

“I told you so,” said a previously unobserved John.

Sherlock ignored him.

“I was just fine.”

“I knew you would be. But it proved useful anyway. That junior saleswoman was far too interested in our tableau. She may be just the gossip we require. Anthea will have made sure to have dropped the right comments within earshot. Now what was next on your agenda?”

“She mentioned something about fancy stationery.”

“Of course, Smythsons.”

“I feel it is unnecessary.”

“Spending Mycroft’s expense budget is never a waste! Make sure you get something you can use after our case is finished.”

With that, he rapped on the glass and ordered the car on to Bond St. Anthea was waiting outside the shop. Molly wondered if she had access to some kind of government transporter.

“I’ll leave you in her capable hands.”

Molly got out, and the two men drove off.

“Sherlock, that was a bit reckless. You’re meant to be mysterious and absent, not popping into shops to ogle your fake wife,” admonished John.

Sherlock raised his collar and sniffed loudly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. This case is paramount. Every detail requires my attention.”

“Ok, if that’s what you’re telling yourself…I can play along, for now.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Molly found her days settling into a pattern. Exercise. Shopping. Grooming. Sessions with Kate to improve her Chicago accent. Homework (Chicago radio podcasts, tv shows set there). The Good Wife & ER were her favourites, even if the accents were not entirely true to the Windy city. More grooming. She hardly saw Sherlock after the day in the jewellers. Anthea appeared regularly – more to amuse herself than any useful reason.

On the day of the charity gala event, Molly realised that she didn’t even know where it was. Anthea told her it didn’t matter “just shut up and look pretty.” Garrards sent over the necklace by special delivery, and of course, the dress was already hanging in her wardrobe. She did get a surprise when Eric, Sharon and Trudy appeared at the house.

“Did you think we’d let you style yourself for this night?” answered Eric with a gasp. Trudy rolled her eyes in sufferance.

So poor Molly was primped and primed and pinched into a fancy up-do, her over-the-top dress and the necklace worth a fortune. During the torture, she had managed to learn that the gala started at 6pm. Apparently, charity things started early, to get guests drunk and more philanthropic.

Sherlock arrived at Pearson Abbey, as John had dubbed it, at 530. He wore a classic white tie tux, as per the dress code for men at this event, his hair slicked back. Molly’s team had left, and she was alone.

“Molly?” he called out.

“In here..” came her voice from the main room.

Molly was standing looking out the window. Dusk was settling on the still spectacular view. She turned to face him as he entered the room.

“Good, are you ready? The car is waiting. Traffic…” his voice trailed off as he appraised her appearance.

“Well?” she said, with a small smile, twirling around.

“It’s perfect. Sparkly, yet still classy. You will stand out in that colour.”

“You look very smart too.”

“Let’s go then.”

A chauffeur-driven car was waiting for them outside.

“Aren’t you concerned that rich people will recognise you?” asked Molly.

“Hence the hair gel.”

“I really don’t think getting rid of your curls is enough!”

“I’ll be introduced as Harry Pearson, with an American wife. If someone thought I looked a bit like Sherlock Holmes, the introduction would put paid to it. People are amazingly biddable, Molly. “

An awkward silence hung between them as they both realised just how they’d arrived in the present situation.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You did, but let’s drop it for now. Put a pin in it, as we Americans would say,” she replied brightly in her Chicago best.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, and both were relieved when the car pulled up at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair.

“The gala is on the lower ground floor. The plan for the evening is just to get you seen, wearing exclusive diamonds. We won’t stay all night. Oh, if you start to slip with my name, turn it into “sweetheart” , ok?”

“Smile, coo at diamonds, be an entirely different person in public, no problem,” said Molly grimly.

“That’s my girl.”

He extended his arm to her and they walked inside.

The ballroom was a quiet monument to taste and vast amounts of money. The large room was dressed for dancing. A 14 piece orchestra in tails played on a stage. A discreet buffet table was off in an alcove, yet another held the bar. Waiters circulated with trays of no doubt top quality champagne. Molly grabbed two glasses from a passing server.

“Who’s the charity?”

“Irrelevant. Rich people don’t care about the cause: they just want the party. Their staff will have written an appropriate cheque.”

Molly took a large gulp of her champagne and giggled as the bubbles rose to hit her nose. Sherlock smiled at her. Glancing over her shoulder, he said “let’s do a lap of the room.”

They circulated slowly. Doing her best to be in character, Molly stopped a middle-aged lady wearing a tiara.

“Oh my gosh! I just love your tiara. It is darling! Where did you get it?”

The woman looked rather uncomfortable.

“Excuse me, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Molly held out her hand but to her surprise, the woman just moved on.

“Well, that was rude!” she said loudly.

Sherlock grasped her elbow to steer her and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear.

“Excellent work. Make yourself a little more voluble. And that was the dowager Countess of Bath, so the answer to your question of where she got it is from her mother-in-law, who got it from hers, and so on.”

Molly nodded, recovering a little of her poise.

They continued to walk the room, and she more cautiously nodded to people.

“Harry, why does no one talk to us?”

“They don’t really know who we are. I’ve let it be known that I made a large contribution to the charity. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to check on something.”

He swept away leaving Molly with a glass of champagne and no one to talk to. She made her way over to the buffet. Perhaps there was room for a canapé or two underneath her glittering dress.

The food table was typical for this kind of event: caviar, a lot of cheese, fancy looking shrimp, individual stuffed mushrooms and tiny Yorkshire puddings topped with rare roast beef. She helped herself to some delicious stilton and stood observing the dancing couples.

After a few moments, a matronly woman wearing a real fur stole appeared beside her. Molly smiled politely as the lady took up a plate and began to load it with food.

“Excellent nosh,” she said.

“It sure is.”

“American?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes.”

“That would be why I don’t recognise you. I’m Camilla Rawley.”

“Molly Pearson…pleased to meet you.”

“How do you do,” replied Camilla, pointedly. “My dear, that is a stunning necklace.”

“Thank you. I just can’t resist a pretty diamond.”

“Aren’t they all pretty?”

Molly chinked her glass with a surprised Camilla’s. “They are!”

“Have you just moved to London?” she inquired politely.

“Uhuh, Harry, that’s my husband, is based here, and we decided we’d live here after we got married. We’re newlyweds.”

“How delightful. Are you enjoying London?”

“Well, I haven’t seen much of it yet. There was so much to do, setting up house.”

“Of course. I say, give me your card, and perhaps we could have lunch some day next week.”

And now Molly realised why the trip to Smythsons had been so important: rich people did things the old-fashioned way. She reached into her glittering purse and removed a calling card which had Mrs Molly Pearson stencilled in the middle, with a discreet address and phone number on the back.

If Camilla Rawley was surprised at the Whitechapel address, she held it in well. Just as she handed over her own card, Sherlock returned, East End accent in place.

“There you are, darling. I been looking all over for you.”

Molly began to introduce Camilla but found herself dragged on to the dance floor.

“Let’s have a dance then.”

Smile fixed in place, Molly said “That was rude! She was the only person to willingly talk to me!”

“Sorry, had to be quick. Thought I saw someone who definitely would recognise me – former client. Best way to hide here is on the dance floor.”

Sherlock held her in a classic waltz pose and moved them off following the rest of the couples, but not quite in time with the music.

“Somehow I thought you’d have had dance lessons. We need to speed up a little. It’s in 3/4 time.”

He grimaced.

“I have had many lessons but _Harry Pearson_ can just about manage the basics.”

Molly thought this was perhaps a step too far into character, grimacing as he stood on her toe. They whirled around the dance floor. Sherlock kept glancing over her shoulder.

“Has he seen you?”

“I’m not sure. He did get one good look at me but wouldn’t have expected me in this scenario. When I turn you, look at your 2 o’clock…guy with a huge handlebar moustache.”

Molly got a look at the fellow, who looked like he’d spent his life in British India.

“He did. Thinks it was a huge mistake to allow them independence – 70 odd years ago!”

“He’s looking over at us.”

“Look back at me. Gaze into my eyes – pretend you’re captivated by me.”

Molly thought no pretence was required but she did as she was told anyway.

As the music ended, the man looked as if he were about to come over.

“I apologise in advance, Molly.”

“For what..” she managed to get out before Sherlock firmly planted his lips on hers and gathered her close. She gasped with shock and the cheeky bastard took the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth. His hand caressed her waist before coming to rest on her neck. Breaking the kiss slowly, he said, semi-loudly, “let’s get out of here, love,” an unmistakable glint in his eye.

She quickly pulled herself together as Sherlock pulled her along by the hand, past the handlebar moustache and out on to the street, where their car pulled up with an impressive display of alertness. Sherlock helped Molly into the car and they sped off.

He threw his head back against the seat and breathed out.

“That was too close. I underestimated my fame.”

“I’m sure John would say “I told you so”, she chided, still trying to get her breathing under control. She’d never have guessed that Sherlock Holmes knew how to kiss like that.

“We’ll be more careful from now on. You’ll make appearances, and complain about your workaholic husband, always out of town. Who was that woman?”

“Her name is Camilla Rawley.”

“Camilla Rawley?” his eyes widened.

“Do you know her?”

“I know of her. She’s a society doyenne. If she’s decided you’re ok, we’re moving along better than I’d hoped.”

“We swapped cards. I’m not sure what for.”

“Did Anthea get you a copy of Debretts’ Etiquette?”

“Er, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll have one sent over.”

The car arrived back at the apartment block.

“Are you coming up?” said Molly shyly.

“Of course not! Good work tonight though.”

“Oh ok…night.”

Sherlock tapped the glass for the driver to move off. The experience of kissing Molly had affected him more than he was letting on. It had been a while since he’d kissed anyone that way: he’d forgotten the rush, the passion and intensity. He pushed the recollection into a drawer in the desk of his mind palace office. Focus must remain on the case.

Molly was left standing on the path. If she’d expected some kind of Cinderella experience, she was sorely mistaken, though her shoes were uncomfortable enough that the lack of one would have been a blessing. She limped inside and punched the lift for her penthouse, trying not to think about the kiss and how she’d felt Sherlock’s heart beat double time as they touched. He may have slipped the mask back in place by the time they reached the car, but his physical reaction was unmistakable. Maybe he was just getting into the role? It required further thought, and with little else to do, she’d give it a good going over.


	7. Get thee to the Tower

Another week passed. Molly was tired of play-acting, bored, unstimulated and the most groomed she’d ever been in her life. It was dull. She’d run through almost 10 seasons of ER. She’d begun a paper on the ways pathology was portrayed on American television. She’d spent vast quantities of money on clothes, accessories, household goods and, of course, jewellery.

She had not seen Sherlock. He had been entirely absent since the night of the gala. Anthea had passed along a couple of perfunctory messages but otherwise nothing. Her rational brain reminded her that this had always been the plan. Harry Pearson was supposed to be a workaholic who neglected his new wife. This would lead to the crime. But another part of Molly whispered that he was avoiding her on purpose. That an innocent kiss to cover their escape had been the opposite. He was confused. Or worse: appalled. If only they could meet, she could look him in the eye: do some deductions of her own. But there was no point in trying to change the status quo until this project was over. It was time, Molly decided, to matters into her own hands. She dialled Anthea.

“Anthea, I’m bored. Escape from the office and come with me to the Tower of London.”

“The Tower? People usually try to escape from it, dear, not to it. And besides, it’s bound to be full of horrid school kids.”

“Never mind that. I have a plan.”

“What plan? I don’t think you making plans is part of the, er, plan, Molly.”

“Well, I’ve changed the plan. I’ll do it myself otherwise, and then you’ll be in trouble for not having chaperoned me.”

She took the silence as acquiescence.

“Excellent. Pick me up in an hour. Don’t tell Sherlock. Oh and book tickets so we can skip the queue.”

Molly reapplied her make-up and added some more jewellery.   She was becoming surprisingly adept at all the bling.

Anthea obediently arrived an hour later. Her eyes widened when she saw the layers of make-up and jewellery on her companion.

“I’m getting quite practiced, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Tell me the plan.”

“Why? So you can tell Mycroft?”

“Mycroft thinks he already figured it out. I want him to be wrong. He’s so rarely wrong. It’s insufferable.”

“Well, it’s simple. I thought we’d go look at some of the most famous jewels in the world. I’m sick of waiting for the Monk to approach me. Let’s wake him up a little.”

Anthea nodded.

“Damn.”

“Mycroft was right?”

“Yep. I’ve never been to the Tower before,” she said, changing the subject.

“Really? It’s fantastic. It’s like the history of England in one place.”

They pulled up outside and got out.

“The car will hover around.”

Once inside, even Anthea’s usual exterior softened a little with awe. Molly made sure to take her to all the interesting places first – graffiti written by famous prisoners, the exhibit about the Princes in the Tower, and finally, they arrived at the building which housed the crown jewels. As they stood outside, it suddenly struck Molly that Moriarty had once stolen these very items from this very building.

“I’d forgotten. Moriarty.”

“How could you forget a thing like that?” wondered Anthea.

“No idea. There was a time when all I did was wonder how I could be taken in like that.”

“Molly, he was a master of deception. He could have fooled almost anyone. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that.”

“Let’s go in. No need to dwell on the past.”

Drawing a deep breath, Molly agreed “Quite right. The sooner we orchestrate the theft of other impressive jewels, the sooner I can have my natural hair colour back. And my life.”

“I do wonder about your priorities there.”

“Urgh, have you ever been forced to change your hair colour? It’s awful.”

“Well, there was this one time when I was in the field when I was forced to dye my hair in the bathroom of a supermarket, dry it under the hand-dryer and fabricate a new outfit from wrapping paper to escape. But I can’t talk about it.”

Once inside, the set up was not as depicted on television, which made sense once Molly thought about it. There had been metal detectors on the way into the Tower itself, but not this particular building. Most of the jewels were displayed in two long glass cases. A moving walkway was between them, presumably to stop crowds from lingering too long. You could also walk on either side of it. Then as you rounded a corner, more items were shown in lit cases and finally, the piece de resistance, the crown. Molly made a good show exclaiming at various items.

“Don’t you think that one suit me, honey?” She was careful not to use Anthea’s name.

“I think this little tiara would look better, Molly.”

“That itty-bitty one? No, I need some much larger and more impressive. And it’s actually not a tiara, it’s a diadem. I’ve been doing my homework.”

“But you’d practically need a bodyguard to follow you around just to wear it outdoors.”

“Well, obviously. Shame this isn’t a shopping mall. I’d take one of almost everything!”

“All you need do is divorce your current Harry and find a younger, more ginger Harry. Then you’d get access to the goodies.”

“Hmm, there is some merit in that notion. Although the last prince who wanted an American divorcee didn’t get very far.”

“She still got to be a duchess…and I’m sure there were jewels.”

“I don’t think my Harry would be very pleased to hear I was leaving him for access to diamonds. Besides, I’m quite fond of him, even if he is a workaholic.”

“You haven’t seen much of him recently?” her voice all sympathy: Anthea could really act when she needed.

“We’re barely married a month and I hardly ever see him. It’s hard.”

“Let’s go have some cake.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Anthea led the seemingly bothered Molly away from the shiny accessories and back towards their car.

“Ok, so what did we achieve there?” she asked, once they were seated.

“I just had a notion that international jewel thieves might keep an eye on places with interesting goods. Perhaps he’ll have someone working there who’ll have overheard the plan.”

Molly fished in her handbag and discovered 5 missed calls, all from Sherlock.

“What the hell does he want?” she said, holding up her phone for Anthea to see.

“Mycroft probably called him.”

“I said not to tell.”

“You said I was not to tell Sherlock. There was no directive for Mycroft to ignore.”

“Looks like my husband will be visiting me later…lucky me!”

“You’ve been a naughty girl!” Anthea quite happily allowed the double entendre tone in her voice.

“Anthea, don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing like that going on.”

“Then why do you suddenly look so excited?”

“Anything to alleviate the boredom.”

***

Anthea decided not to come in and left Molly to face the music alone.

When she arrived up to the penthouse, Sherlock was pacing a hole in the carpet of the lounge.

“There you are!”

“Here I am….your fake wife, ready to do your bidding.”

“That’s funny, because I thought I told you to stay in the house!”

“Sherlock. I’m not your slave. There was nothing in the plan that said I couldn’t leave the house!”

“But you did agree to a plan. And said plan did not involve crazy trips to the Tower of bloody London!”

“Oh will you relax? I went to a historic site, like any American tourist might do on a visit to the capital of Britain. And if I lingered a while over the shiny jewels, so what?”

“But you might have gotten hurt! Or worse!”

“Hold your horses. And will you stop pacing? Why would I get hurt as a tourist? It’s not like Moriarty was planning another visit today.”

Something seemed to snap in Sherlock at the sound of his nemesis’ name and rushed over to Molly, grabbed her and squeezed her tight.

“I know,” he muttered into her too-blonde hair, “it’s not at all rational but that place is so connected with him…”

Molly returned the embrace, with less force.

“It’s all fine though. Nothing went wrong. Anthea and I had a perfectly lovely time. It struck me that the Monk might have an interest in such places and keep an eye on them. Thought it might bring me to his notice a bit sooner.”

Sherlock pushed Molly to arm’s length and peered down at her.

“That’s actually not bad.”

Molly shook free of his arms.

“Don’t shower me with praise or anything. You’ve not got a monopoly on clever! You can’t blame me for trying to move the plan along. I’m ridiculously bored here alone most of the time. There’s only so many times I can pluck my eyebrows or get another pedicure.”

“Alright.” Despite the curt reply, his tone was more conciliatory.

“What you need is some friends. Perhaps it’s time to make contact with Camilla Rawley.”

“I could do that.”

“No, Molly. Your assistant will contact hers and set up a lunch date.”

“Right. I could get used to this having an assistant.”

“Yes, it’s very convenient.”

“I don’t think John would like to hear you call him your assistant.”

“No, he usually doesn’t,” he said with a smile. “Right, I’d better get going.”

“Oh do you have to? I was going to get some take-away..”

“Can’t. Working. Meant to be workaholic borderline absentee husband. Wouldn’t look good if we had an evening cuddled in front of the tv.”

Molly wasn’t sure when cuddling came into the occasion.

“Alright then. What’s the next step?”

“Camilla Rawley. I told you. Now, please do behave. Mycroft was insufferable when he phoned earlier and I couldn’t bear it again.”

To the surprise of both parties, Sherlock leaned back over Molly and gave her a brief kiss on the mouth. Before she could form “oh”, he was gone. Again. A kiss and run. And we’re back to over-analysis, she thought, as she fished out a pizza menu.

 


	8. Afternoon tea & dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly eats three very different meals

Molly was bored. It was practically her motto now. Maybe she should have a coat of arms designed. The motto would be “Toujours ennuyé”. She had a solitary event to look forward to: afternoon tea with Camilla. She’d called, or rather her assistant had called Anthea to arrange and they were going to Claridges. Just about the poshest hotel in London. Afternoon tea there was booked out months in advance but clearly Camilla was the kind of lady who made appointments in advance and then found a person to invite later. Either that or she had enough clout to bump someone else from the list. It was the first time Molly would have to be entirely Molly Pearson without backup. Anthea had insisted on a pincam and radio microphone – just in case.

Molly had by now worked extensively with Kate and her Chicago inflections were as good as they’d ever be.

As she dressed for the meeting, she began to wonder just how long this long con would be. They were two and a half weeks in . Sherlock had been vague, of course, on how they would attract the Monk’s attention. Somewhere there would be a watcher, a listener, an envoy. But for now, there were tiny gourmet sandwiches to enjoy.

Claridges, also in Mayfair, was one of the finest London hotels. Known for its Art Deco glamour, people would pay anything up to £3000 a night to stay there. Afternoon tea had been a staple of their menu for over 150 years.

On arrival, Molly was ushered into the correct area. An elegantly dressed woman approached.

“Mrs Pearson, please come this way. Mrs Rawley has just arrived,” she said.

Apparently, this hotel prided itself on recognising guests on sight, even those who had never darkened its door before!

Camilla Rawley was the picture of a lady who lunched. She wore a classic 2 piece Chanel suit, complemented with pearls and one of those handbags with a leather strip threaded through a chain. Molly Hooper wasn’t mad about them but rich people always seemed to favour them. A pair of actual white gloves lay on the low table between them.

“My dear Mrs Pearson, how lovely to see you again!” she greeted. “Won’t you sit down?”

Anthea had coached her to play effusive, American and thrilled to be there. This last Molly said aloud, adding;

“Please do call me Molly.”

“Then you simply must call me Camilla.”

Some polite chitchat ensued.

“The ball was a marvellous success. They raised £27000 for the charity.”

“What was the charity? I never did hear,” asked Molly.

“Oh one of the disabled children ones, I expect. It was their turn.”

Molly couldn’t hide her shock at this disregard.

“You are surprised at my comment. You see, we get a tax break if donations reach a certain amount per annum. It doesn’t matter a damn which charity actually benefits. Anyway, I’m quite sure they all do some good,” she sniffed.

Molly nodded and reached for the menu. British Molly Hooper knew well there would be no coffee on the menu, and indeed, beverage was the only choice to be made, as the rest of the menu was set, apart from dietary requirements. She felt Camilla’s eyes watch her, and passed the test by not remarking on the lack of coffee.

“So tell me, my dear, how are you settling in to London?”

“Well, it’s quite a change from Chicago.”

“And what did you do there?”

“I am, I mean, I was an event planner.”

“Oh I see. Would you have done anything I’d heard of?”

“I hope not. I specialise in a discreet service – my clients prefer to pretend they’ve done all the work themselves!”

“Well, I never! We must get you to work on some charity boards in that case. London could definitely do with a shake-up on the party scene. One gets so tired of the same old things. Unless of course, your husband would prefer you did not work….?”

“Harry doesn’t mind, for now. Perhaps later, it might not be so convenient,” said Molly.

Camilla was too well bred to inquire further but she appeared to comprehend the subtle message that children were in the offing. Many society matrons made a show of cutting back when they had a child, and then made a glittering re-emergence after a suitable period of time, once the child was handed off to nannies, and later, boarding school. It was a life that most normal people couldn’t fathom. Molly’s fake US background, which Camilla would certainly have checked, would fit a mould of stay at home mother who raised the kids and occasionally helped with the family business.

“Of course, your husband is very busy with his own work, so perhaps he won’t mind you taking on a little charity work?” Camilla prodded.

“He sure is busy.”

Camilla raised a polite eyebrow but again breeding stopped her from further questions. Molly was amazed at her discretion. Even she felt it was quite the opener.

“I am on the board of a fundraising committee for a charity which works with disadvantaged and previously wayward youths in the East End. Perhaps that would suit?” she said instead.

“It certainly would be an easy commute!”

“Oh dear, we never meet in the East End. No, no, it’s all quite tasteful. We generally meet in Lady Hanover’s house on Eaton Square.”

“Of course, much easier for you all, no doubt.”

A lull in the conversation was filled by the arrival of delicious looking sandwiches. Molly wanted to dive right in but waited to see how Camilla would approach the food.

“Well this looks excellent. Tuck in, my dear.”

Camilla picked up one sandwich, put it on her plate, then after a decent pause, raised it to her lips, took a delicate bite and then put it down again.

Molly privately thought that each sandwich could be demolished in a single bite but she was quite wrong. Sandwiches were obviously meant to be consumed at a snail’s pace.

“Will I see you at the opera this week, Molly?”

“The opera? No, I don’t think so.”

“But you simply must. It’s Rigoletto. I hear it’s divine.”

“Harry’s is working, and I prefer not to go alone.”

“I quite understand. It is such a bore when one’s husband is away a lot.”

After a suitable amount of polite conversation, they finished their meal and said their goodbyes. When Molly gained the privacy of her car, she placed a call to Wendy. Tiny sandwiches might be delicious but they hadn’t filled her at all, and Camilla had declined the scones and cake part of the tea, which was the best bloody bit!

By the time she got back home, Wendy had rustled up a burger and chips and Molly dived on it.

“Oh, this is the best burger I’ve ever had!” she exclaimed.

Wendy gave her a small, smug smile.

“Yes, the president used to like that feta cheese and caramelised onions one too.”

“President? Which one?”

“Oh honey, I can’t tell you that. He was a democrat though. Tell me about the lunch.”

Molly proceeded to detail the lunch.

“I think you did well there. She was clearly sounding you out for bigger things. This fundraising committee will be a good entry into the wider circle. I do wish we knew why she’d chosen you though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Camilla Rawley isn’t the sort to wake up and decide to play fairy godmother without it being to her own advantage. I’ll tell Anthea to do a deep search on her history. There’ll be something in her taking you under her wing, I’m sure of it.”

Molly shrugged and continued to inhale her burger.

***

A couple of days later, a large A4 envelope came to the penthouse, addressed to Mrs Molly Pearson. Inside was the latest edition of Private Eye, a satirical magazine. A post-it on the cover was marked “page 27, excellent work! SH”

**Trouble in Paradise?!**

**Reclusive businessman, Harry Pearson, has recently brought back a beautiful American bride to our Thames shores. The new Mrs Pearson has been making a splash about town. Private Eye saw her lunch with society matron, Camilla Rawley (ex-wife of billionaire playboy Teddy Rawley) at Claridges. We do wonder at Pearson, a well-known workaholic, letting this pretty little thing out of his sight; she might just find someone else more to her liking!**

A further note from Sherlock was beside this article.

“Perhaps we should make a joint appearance to keep the gossipmongers delighted. Dinner at the Ivy, tonight, 8 o’clock. Wear diamonds.”

With all the shopping she’d been doing, Molly had just the right outfit. An emerald green halter-neck dress, ending at the knee, adorned with a large diamond bracelet, drop earrings and her monstrous loaner engagement ring. Her hair was arranged in a neat chignon to show off the earrings. As the evenings were now getting colder, she took the opportunity to wear her mink coat, another in the increasingly long list of things she’d never expected to wear, let alone own.

***

While Molly had been sitting at home, bored out of her tree, Sherlock had surprisingly been doing much the same. He’d decided that it was best to keep a slightly lower profile during this long con, in case people started to make a connection between him and his alter ego, Harry Pearson. He’d taken a couple of easy cases from Lestrade but otherwise it was all quiet. Naturally, he was monitoring Molly’s progress and now it was time to step up the guilty workaholic act. Such a husband would feel obliged to take his lovely wife out as an apology for spending so much time away from her.

***

Molly was waiting in the lobby when Sherlock arrived in his chauffeur-driven car.   He instructed the driver to wait and rushed inside. When he saw her, he hurried over and swept her into his arms.

“Darling, forgive me for being so absorbed with work!”

Before she had time to answer, Molly found herself the lucky recipient of a firm liplock, with only the security man for an audience. Starved of both attention and action, she went with it and snuggled in tight, however, Sherlock pulled away and took her hand.

“Come on, we don’t want to keep the Ivy waiting.”

Once they were in the car, he continued.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to be quite lovey-dovey tonight, Molly. It fits the pattern of neglected wife that we’re trying to build up. You’re bored one minute, the next I’m lavishing attention on you, and then gone again. It’s how we’ll lure the Monk in.”

Molly just nodded. She knew she shouldn’t be so excited at the prospect of sanctioned touching…but damn, she was going to enjoy this.

The driver dropped them at the door of the Ivy and they were greeted by name and led to a central table in the restaurant. Molly knew there was private rooms here but the point was to be seen. At this table, they were practically the entertainment. Sherlock made a fuss of pulling out her chair, a move Molly had always felt was ridiculous. Once they were both seated and reviewing the menu, he took her hand, almost absently.

“If you don’t mind, Molly, I’ll do the ordering, make it look like I’m a bossy husband. Tell me what you want first though.”

She was surprised at this level of consideration but kept it in as she replied.

“I’ll have the lobster bisque to start and the lamb shanks.”

“Good choice.”

Sherlock signalled the waiter.

“Evening, we’ll have the lobster bisque and the lamb shanks. Can you recommend a white to go with them?”

“Of course, sir, I’ll ask the sommelier to choose something suitable.”

“Great, and mate, there’ll be a nice tip in it for you if you look after us. I want to spoil Mrs P here. Let’s have some bellinis while we wait, yeah?”

The waiter nodded and moved off.

“The trick is confidence with these people. You show enough confidence and they forget the accent and the nouveau riche tang,” he murmured, as he again picked up Molly’s hand and kissed her wrist. She pulled away, trying her best to look bashful.

“Do try to relax,” he said through a smile, “pretend I’m the man of your dreams.”

Molly let out a shaky breath and turned it into a giggle. It was all a bit too close to home.

When their starters arrived, she was relieved to regain control both her hands so she could eat. However, she soon found a leg wedged between hers, not quite playing footsies, but making sure they maintained contact. It seemed a level too far considering the heavy damask tablecloth went almost to the ground.

“Tell me about some of your latest cases. Any good bodies?” she asked, starved of her normal life.

“None. I’m trying to be a bit more covert while this case is going on. Don’t want any clever clogs putting two and two together.”

“How are you getting on with John’s wife?” she said, trying a different tack.

“I like her. She’s smart and well able for John.”

“And she doesn’t mind her husband having a demanding best friend?”

“Who’s that?” said Sherlock, without a hint of irony.

Molly rolled her eyes.

The food was divine, the wine superb, and the company not bad at all. If he hadn’t kept switching between accents, Molly might have been lulled right into the fantasy of a great dinner date with Sherlock. For dessert, they ordered one slice of an excellent lemon meringue pie.

Molly took the first bite.

“Oh my good god, food heaven!”

Sherlock shrugged.

She took up her fork, broke off a piece and held it up to his lips.

“You must try it, darling,” she said loudly in her own best accent. And that was it, suddenly they were feeding each other, while making sickeningly sweet comments. Molly actually saw people looking their way in that mildly appalled-cannot look away fashion.

“Harry, I think we’re probably overstepping the mark. Shall we get the bill?”

“Good idea…we’ve given them all a good eyeful as it is.”

Sherlock unnecessarily helped Molly into her coat, bestowing a kiss on the nape of her neck as he settled it on her shoulders. Their car was waiting outside. Molly wondered how he timed it so well. Was there a GPS sensor in her bag?

Once in the car, Sherlock gathered her in his arms for another really good snog. The rational part of her brain was diminished by the good food, wine and kissing but a small voice pointed out that here in the car, driven by one of Mycroft’s people, there was really no need for the charade. By the time they reached Whitechapel, her hair was coming loose and Sherlock had 2 extra shirt buttons undone.

To her immense surprise, he got out of the car with her.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve just spent the whole evening pretending we’re a newly-wed couple crazy about each other. It would look tremendously odd if I dropped you off at our alleged joint home and left!”

“So you’re staying the night?” confirmed Molly.

“Of course. Oh don’t worry, there’s more than one bedroom.”

They ascended to the penthouse in silence, holding hands for the benefit, once again, of a security man.

Once inside the apartment, Molly was a bit at a loss for comment.

“Will we have a nightcap?”

“None for me, but go ahead. I’ve had more than enough with the wine. I think we did well tonight, Molly.”

She nodded, slipping off her coat and leaving it on a chair.

“I see you’re getting used to other people picking up for you?” quipped Sherlock.

“Learnt from the best,” she retorted with a smile.

“Touché. Right, I’m off to bed. Good night.”

Molly stood in the hallway. It was all a bit much to go from full on making-out (as she supposed Molly Pearson would call it) to barely a nod good night. She was more than a little aroused. However, bed seemed the best place for her, even if it was to be alone.

Going to bed when you were Molly Pearson took a good deal longer than Molly Hooper took, so half an hour later, she climbed into bed, wearing a black silky nightie, her face finally clear of all the slap. She lay in the centre of the very large bed thinking of a man who tonight was just a few metres away, and seemed more than a little interested in her. Did she dare go to him?

 


	9. Nine

**Chapter 9**

A further half an hour on, Molly was nowhere near sleep. She tossed around making a mess of the covers. Perhaps some warm milk would help. She got up and threw on the matching peignoir, internally scoffing at owning such a ridiculous movie costume.

Once in the kitchen, she set out to warm some milk up on the hob – microwaved wasn’t quite the same.

“Molly, what are you doing up?” said a low voice behind her. She jumped a little at the sound and turned to face Sherlock, wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. His hair was wet and back to its natural curl. His eyes raked over her skimpy outfit, resting a little too long on her cleavage and bare legs.

“Couldn’t sleep; thought I’d have some warm milk.”

“Me too.”

“I thought you didn’t really sleep anyway,” she quipped.

“It’s a useful façade, but obviously I do require sleep. Can I have some milk too?”

She nodded.

Sherlock made his way across the kitchen.

“Where are the cups?”

“What, you can’t deduce it from the way the cupboards are aligned?”

A small grimace swept over his face. Molly felt a bit guilty. She pointed to the cupboard over her right shoulder.

Now he was a lot closer, so Molly focused on stirring the milk. She hated when it got that skin from over-heating.

Sherlock placed two cups on the worktop beside her.

“Molly. I don’t really want any milk.”

“You don’t?”

“I went to your room, but you weren’t there.”

“What did you want?”

“I thought we needed a bit more practice.”

_Oh right…so he needed an excuse._

“Right. You don’t think we convinced people tonight?”

“No. We need more work, put some extra effort in.”

The milk on the cooker began to bubble, but neither Molly nor Sherlock paid any attention.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“Well, when I checked your room, I noticed there was a really large bed. Much too big for one tiny woman.”

Molly was finding it hard to believe she was actually awake. Time for some physical proof. She stood on her tippy toes and put her arms around Sherlock’s neck. His arms found their way around her back.

“This is new,” she said, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“Feels right though.” Sherlock bent his head to hers and kissed her, a rough intense brush of the lips. Different to their earlier kisses, since their audience was absent, it somehow built on the previous experiences.

Molly suddenly smelled burning and pulled away to take the milk off the heat, before they had a different sort of fire on their hands. Sherlock made an exasperated noise.

“Be patient: we don’t want the fire brigade to come!”

“No, just the fire…”

“Sherlock, that was a terrible line!”

“You’re right, it was beneath me, which is where you’re going to be shortly.”

Molly smirked.

“Are you kidding me? Did you really just follow up with an even worse line?”

Grabbing her around the waist, Sherlock didn’t answer. He just attached his lips to her neck and began to suck. His hands ran softly over the silk of her nightgown, grazing her boobs and then travelling down to finger the hem line. Molly could feel his arousal against her and she turned in his arms to kiss his lips properly. Scooping her up, Sherlock boosted Molly onto the island worktop, so she was now looking down on him slightly. She reached down and cupped his cheek.

“Sherlock, I know we’re pretending to be newly married, but we’re not shagging on the worktop.”

“Certainly not, Mrs Pearson. Now lie back.”

Sherlock’s hands went to Molly’s soft thighs – a much darker colour than normal thanks to her fake tan. He pushed the silk up and exposed her naked body below, running his fingers gently over her stomach before dipping down to her now expertly waxed hair. She leapt at his touch – a touch so often imagined. Molly leaned back on her hands as Sherlock lowered his mouth to her mound. She made one brief protestation about kitchens and hygiene before all command of the English language was pushed from her mind as Sherlock’s tongue wound its way around her clitoris. She did in fact lie back then, as her hands flew to his hair and pulled hard. The resulting groan vibrated through her body and she followed it with one of her own. Molly curled her leg around Sherlock’s back and rubbed her toes along his spine.

“Oh god, Sherlock, don’t stop..”

He didn’t. She came quickly, her toes scrunched up tightly, throwing her head back and laughing.

“This is not what I imagined.”

Sherlock rose and leaned over her.

“Really? What did you imagine?”

“Well, for one…my hair wasn’t blonde.”

“I do think you’re slightly obsessed with your hair, Molly.”

“It’s just so awful, over-processed, obviously dyed. It’s not..”

“..you,” he finished. “No, it’s not.”

Sherlock straightened up. Something had changed.

“I think it’s probably safe for me to leave now. Doubt anyone’s watching.”

Molly stared at him incredulously. Her nightdress was still around her waist. She wriggled it down and jumped off the worktop.

“Sherlock, are you serious? You’re leaving now?” She gestured at the worktop.

“I think it’s probably a good idea.”

“You are un-be-lieve-able.”

Sherlock’s mask of impassivity had already descended.

“I’ll just go get dressed. Good work tonight, Molly.”

He left the kitchen.

Molly stood there, looking at the small saucepan of milk, now skimmed over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a short chapter but hopefully more soon!


	10. Decisions

Sherlock walked out into the night. That was an extraordinarily foolish thing to do. It could jeopardise the whole con. Damn it felt good though.

***

The following morning, Molly had had approximately 2 hours of sleep. She stared unhappily at her wardrobe of costumes, longing for some of her own clothes. She pulled out jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. Ok, so they were all designer, but still relatively normal. In defiance, she applied no make-up and scrapped her hair into a ponytail. Shrugging on the jacket, she grabbed her least ostentatious bag and left the house.

An hour later, Molly could be found at the Camden market, sipping a too hot takeaway tea and browsing second hand clothes. They weren’t even good enough to pretend they were vintage. The market was busy and it felt good to be anonymous. Just one of a large crowd. How had she got herself into this mess? Well, a certain curly-haired devil, of course…and she just couldn’t say no. It was time to change that. It wasn’t too late to pull out of this mess. Nothing of substance to the case had happened. Just some outstanding oral sex and a forever changed relationship, said some small part of her brain.

 

Molly was resolved then. She’d go to Sherlock, tell him it was all over, take a week’s holiday, get her cat and her flat back, and then return to work. Real work. It was for the best. When she was feeling stronger, perhaps it would be time to consider a job change, maybe even in a new city. Sherlock Holmes was clearly a toxic influence in her life.

But first things first… She hailed a taxi and directed it to Baker St.

While they drove, she took out a notebook from her bag, intending to jot down a few points for her conversation with Sherlock. He was bound to have counter-arguments and she needed rebuttal. Hang on, she thought, what’s this?

“This” was a small postcard in her bag. She hadn’t put it there. The picture on the front had the crown jewels laid on a purple velvet cloth. Turning it over, she saw a vivid green ink had written

“so you like diamonds?”

Underneath, printed as part of the card, were the words “bespoke diamonds” and an image. It was the back of a head with a tonsure cut into the hair.

FUCK, she thought, and then she said it again out loud.

Her taxi driver, a turban-wearing Sikh, looked in his rear view mirror askance.

“Sorry, terribly sorry. I just realised something important,” Molly said hastily.

He nodded and returned his full attention to the road ahead.

Well, best laid plans…

There was still an out of course. All Molly need do is roll down the window and casually throw this car out onto the road. No one would ever know. She’d be back home by the end of the day.   She looked out the window. They were nearing Euston Station. She had at most 10 minutes before arrival. She drummed her fingers on the arm rest. Was it too late? Was she in danger if she not now play along til the end. Was the Monk someone who also killed or was he purely a thief? Why hadn’t she asked these questions in advance.

She looked at the card in her hand and at the window again. Dare she throw it out? Yes, but her conscience would niggle: not just about the contact, even the littering would bother her.

As fate was deciding for her, the car pulled up outside 221B. Molly paid the driver, tipping well to apologise once more, and got out. She rang the bell. For a long couple of minutes, there was no answer, and then Sherlock himself came to the door. He looked surprised to see her, and she in turn was surprised to see him holding Toby, who meowed in delight at the sight of Molly.

“Molly, what are you doing here?”

She pushed her way past, scooped up Toby and headed up the stairs without a word. Sherlock followed.

In the sitting room, Molly shucked her soft cream leather jacket and sat on the couch, petting the purring cat.

Sherlock entered the room. He opened his mouth to speak but Molly held up her hand.

“I came here to tell you I’d had enough of this stupid façade, Sherlock. A month of nonsense, and last night, last night was the final straw.”

“I apologise for last night,” he replied, very quickly.

“For which bit are you sorry, Sherlock? The kissing in the taxi? The oral sex in the kitchen? The leaving?”

“All of it?” his voice rose at the end, indicating how unsure he really was.

Molly shook her head, and ploughed on.

“I found this in my bag though.”

She held out the card for Sherlock to take. His eyes crinkled at the sides as he read the brief message.

“This is fantastic, Molly! He’s made contact. I didn’t expect this so soon. Tell me everything. Where did you get this? Did you see the delivery person?”

“I was in the Camden market. It must have been slipped into my handbag.”

“That means you were followed! And you were dressed like this, no make-up?”

“Yes, I came straight here, as I was planning to tell you I was done. I only found it in the cab.”

“Yes, yes, you mentioned, but you realise it’s far too late to pull out now, don’t you?” Sherlock gripped her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye.

“I realise that. But there are new rules. I don’t want to see you. Be the very model of a neglectful workaholic husband. We will communicate only through Anthea, or John.”

Sherlock looked like he had comments but wisely kept them to himself, and nodded his agreement.

“Fine. Molly, I want you to go home now and do some online research.”

“What?”

“Do some googling about diamonds. Famous diamonds, etc. Look at some diamond jeweller websites. That kind of thing.”

“Ok, but why?”

“If he’s following you, he’s probably tracking your phone and computer. We’ve deliberately made them vulnerable to hacking. Oh don’t worry, your preliminary work on the pathology in tv shows – great idea by the way – is safe. Wendy backed it up to a flash drive when she was cleaning.”

“There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye, isn’t there?” asked Molly.

“Yes, now go. And thank you.”

Molly gave Toby one final stroke and rose to leave.

After Sherlock watched her leave in another taxi, he called out.

“John, it’s safe now, she’s gone.”

He turned around to face a very angry looking doctor.

“I don’t know where to start, Sherlock,” he said, furious.

“Oh I thought you’d want to go with oral sex.”

“Sherlock! This is serious. What the hell are you playing at? Molly isn’t some toy to be batted around. She’s in real danger.”

“I know. Why do you think I was with her last night?”

“Ha! Sounds like you needed an entirely different kind of protection. I thought the plan was neglecting her?!”

“It is, but part of that play is to occasionally spoil her, so that it looks like we have a guilt-driven relationship. The Monk needs to know that Harry Pearson would do anything to keep her on side.”

“And exactly how does you-know-what come into it?”

“Well, that just sort of happened,” said Sherlock, quite sheepishly.

“HOW DOES THAT JUST HAPPEN? I really hope you didn’t learn this one on YouTube as well!”

“Nope, learnt that one in the usual way,” replied the detective with a smile.

“And I left before it went any further,” he added.

“You left? You complete tit! You can’t just leave after _that_ ,” said an exasperated John.

“Why not? I admit it was a personal challenge….it wasn’t reciprocal you know.”

“Oh god, Sherlock, stop talking. Immediately. I feel like we’ve had this conversation before but at the risk of repeating myself. You cannot toy with that poor woman’s emotions like that. It’s bad enough that you’re playing fake house with her…but physical contact has to end.”

“I already agreed to that, didn’t I? You heard the whole conversation.”

“Yes, but I am reiterating it. It’s not fair. She likes you, maybe even loves you, and this is what, your idea of thanks?”

“Right, of course, because it couldn’t possibly be that I like her too and got caught up in the pretending?”

“No. Wait. What?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: thanks to anyone who is still reading this. It’s turned out to be very long in the making but I do intend to finish this story. Here’s a brief recap for those who don’t have time for a reread:
> 
> Molly has just discovered she’s being tracked by the Monk and after an evening of highly inappropriate behaviour from our faking-it couple, she decided to call it quits on the whole charade, only to realise it’s too late for that. A discussion about how to proceed was overheard by John and he’s now royally pissed off at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, are you shitting me?”

John’s vocabulary always became cruder when he got angry.

“No, I’m perfectly serious,” replied Sherlock.

“So just to be totally crystal clear then: you, Sherlock Holmes, are saying that you have some sort of romantic feelings for Molly Hooper, and that you just couldn’t help yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“Bollocks. You’d never let something like that get in the way of a case…even if you were capable of it.”

“Capable of it? I’m not a robot, John. I have feelings.”

John shook his head and looked around.

“This is a joke, isn’t it? You’re winding me up and the tape will be shown at my next birthday..”

“No, John, I assure you, I’m completely serious. Now, can we focus on the case? The sooner it’s over, the better.”

“Well, that’s true. And if you aren’t lying to me about Molly, you’ve got some serious grovelling to do if you have even a whiskers chance of ever...”

“Ever getting her to reciprocate the oral sex, yes, I rather thought so.”

John winced at the thought of it.

<***>

Molly returned to Pearson Abbey. She didn’t regret the choice, having always been a see-it-through type of woman. And the sooner it was over, the better. Perhaps it was time to consider jobs in other parts of the country. This relationship was Sherlock was unhealthy. At least, that was what the rational part of her brain said. She muted it and allowed herself to daydream about sex with Sherlock, while she obediently searched online and read up on famous diamonds. And there was a lot she didn’t know about diamonds, like the fact that they came in lots of different colours. The Queen seemed to own a very extensive collection, but that she supposed was to be expected. The Hope Diamond was blue! She really should have read up on it before now, considering their game plan. As she read the whole Wikipedia article, she realised that getting anyone to steal such a gem from a museum would be a major operation. Like anything else obtained on the black market or stolen to order, she’d never be able to show it off. Wearing the diamond would be just a private home experience. God, she was even starting to think like Molly Pearson!

<***>

If Molly had hoped the sham was nearing an end, she was to be sorely mistaken. A week passed without contact from the Monk or Sherlock. And then a second.

In the middle of the third week, Molly received an invitation from Camilla Rawley to attend a board meeting for her charity, Reformed Ruffians, at her own home. Ready for such an occasion was some more daytime appropriate jewels purchased (or loaned, she wasn’t sure) from De Beers. A magnificent brooch, swirls of diamonds almost looking like a butterfly, but tasteful, now adorned a crisp black suit jacket and skirt. To show the American inside though, a loud pink silk blouse completed the look. Molly wasn’t the sort of woman to be interested in handbags, but even she had recognised a Kelly Hermes when she saw it. Custom pink, Anthea had said.

“Make sure to keep this one, when it’s all over,” she grinned. “Now, I’ll be on the mic again, so I can prompt you if necessary. You’re really just there to make up numbers. They don’t actually expect anything of you.”

“Remind why I need to do this? The Monk has made contact!” groaned Molly.

“Well, the alternative is to stay home for some more time.”

“Right, you make a good point there.”

An hour later, Molly pulled up outside Camilla’s house in Belgravia. An actual footman hurried out to open her door and led her through to a beautifully decorated Georgian drawing room. A small group of well-dressed matrons were gathered inside.

“Molly! How are you, my dear?” said Camilla. “Let me introduce you around.”

She led her though a blitz introduction to 4 women and one assistant, clearly there to take notes, and then probably do the actual work. Molly promptly forgot all their names.

“Let’s get down to business,” continued Camilla. “I thought our next event could be punk-themed. The boys we’re helping are little punks, after all.”

Enthusiastic noises were made. Molly was appalled.

“Would you encourage fancy-dress or just a punk décor?” she asked.

Six elegantly coiffed heads whipped towards her.

“Oh, I don’t think we need go as far as dressing up, dear. Although Vivienne does do a good range of couture punk…”

“It would make quite a PR splash for the public to see society leaders dressed in anarchy’s best,” ventured one woman who was sporting a huge sapphire ring.

Excited murmurs broke out until a look from Camilla silenced them.

“I like your tenacity, Molly. Where have you in mind for a venue?”

Casting around for inspiration, she saw nothing at all helpful.

“What about a condemned building of some sort…a squat?”

“You are a genius! We’ll charge £350 a head, serve cocktail sausages and chips, and make a fortune for the charity.”

“Perhaps we could have some actual ruffians,” suggested another woman.

“That’s probably a step too far, Letitia. Let’s have some tea.”

Half an hour later, the event had taken rough shape. Molly was bursting for the loo and wondering how to ask politely where it was. A maid was taking away the tea things, so she enquired in her best American where the restroom was and was shown upstairs.

The room she was led into must have originally been a bedroom. Its proportions were immense for a bathroom. There was a circular table in the middle of the room, as well as a bath, fireplace and bookshelf. After she was finished her business, she perused the books and found them to be refreshingly low brow. When she went back down stairs, the others were all gone.

“Oh dear, I appear to have overstayed my welcome.”

“Not at all, have a seat. I wanted a private chat. You did very well. Your organisation skills will be of benefit to the charity. But much more importantly, tell me what’s going on with you?”

If Molly thought this new version of Camilla was surprisingly chummy, her face managed to keep emotion-free.

“Oh you know, not much. I’ve been doing some tourist sites, shopping. Harry’s been away a lot.”

“Tsk, that man needs a good kick in the arse,” tutted Camilla. “And what were you doing in Camden Market?”

This time she couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.

“How did you know I was at the Camden market?”

“Oh a little bird told me. Have you got a bit of rough on the side?”

“Nothing like that. I’ve barely looked at any man since I met my Harry.” She was stalling, and Anthea stepped into the breach. “You were looking for a unique present for the man who has everything. His birthday is soon,” she said in Molly’s ear.

Molly repeated this fiction.

“Did you find anything?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Well, next time, try the Portobello market.”

She stood up, indicating that their time was up, and Molly was soon back in the car and on the phone to Anthea.

“Did you hear that?” asked Molly.

“Of course. This is fascinating. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That Camilla is involved with the Monk: yes!”

“We’ll have to talk to Sherlock.”

“Well, you report this progress, and then I’ll talk to John on the phone.”

“Molly, I don’t know what’s happened between you but you’ll have to coordinate with him!”

“You don’t know what happened? Your, or should I say, Mycroft’s skills are slipping.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No. Report back to me when you’ve talked to him. I’m hanging up now.”

Molly’s mind was ablaze with thoughts. Was Camilla a front or a fence or whatever it was called? Could she actually be the Monk? No – there was a photo of a man. Although, that would be an excellent cover, if people were looking for a male thief… She realised sadly that she did want to talk to Sherlock about this. Was it perhaps time to let him back into the house, at least temporarily?


End file.
